


Old Man

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Impala Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:10:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: You do your best to assure Dean that he is definitely NOT old.





	Old Man

“You ain’t old, baby,” you breathe, raking blunt nails through Dean’s meticulously styled hair.

“If you were really an old man…” You hike your skirt up, black and gray pinstripes bunched around your hips. “Betcha couldn’t fuck me right here.”

“Shit-” It’s a sharp intake of air through clamped teeth, but still clear as a bell. You smile, shift yourself until dress shirt-clad breasts mash up against his throat. He wraps his arms around your middle, ducks his head so that his face buries in your covered cleavage.

“Oh my god,” he says, voice muffled, and squeezes tighter.

You let your hands fall to his shoulders, suit jacket cool and smooth under your palms. Dean moans, and you can feel the vibrations bleed into your chest, settle behind your nipples. He pulls back and looks up at you, pupils blown. “You’re tryna kill me, huh? Give me a goddamned coronary?”

You move forward until your knees are pressed up against the back of his seat and then drop your hips so that the hardness under his dress pants nestles right against your cunt. “Nah. You can handle this, can’tcha?”

Dean gives you a look; something dark and predatory, and then he’s making quick work of your dress shirt, nimble fingers deftly unbuttoning until he can see the black lace of your bra. He pushes the curtain of your open shirt to the sides, then peels both cups down before licking a nipple into the heat of his mouth. You lurch forward, grind against him as electricity surges through you, and shit, you’re parked on the side of a fairly busy street where  _anyone_  can see you because the windows aren’t even a  _little_  tinted and-

Shit, he’s sucking at the other breast, thumb swiping over the cooling damp of your just-assaulted bud.

 _“Oh,”_  you breathe, hands curving at the back of his head, holding him against you as his tongue swirls hot and wet over and over and over. He breaks away then, hands frantically working his pants open. You lift up as much as you can, neck bent just under the Impala’s roof, and pull your panties to the side before lowering back down.

Dean’s grasping himself at the base, free hand at your hip to align you. You hitch forward, get your hands on the back of the bench seat, use the leverage to sink yourself down.

Your eyes roll back as he stretches and fills you, and you don’t stop until he’s buried to the root.

“Holy shit,” he grunts, voice husky. You bring your hands back to his shoulders, use them to pump your hips up and down the solid length of him.

You’re wedged in between thick chest and hard steering wheel, your ass bumping over the bottom round of it on every pass. The angle and depth Dean’s reaching is nothing short of incredible, but your thighs are starting to burn with the exertion, and you’re pretty sure you’re not going to come this way, but it’s okay. This is about him, about Dean.

But then he’s hoisting you up, arms coiled tight around you-

And then he’s thrusting up into you, hips  _powerfully_  fierce. You drop your head back, fingers curling into the soft of his suit jacket because, fuck, he’s hitting home and it just feels so  _good,_ and - holy shit you’re fucking coming, legs tight, knuckles locked.

Dean comes then, right behind you, spills into you as the last aftershock fades. He’s choking and gasping your name, arms like a vice around you, lashes fluttering.

You slump against him, muscles jellied. “Mmm,” you groan, voice gruff.

“Not bad for an old man.”


End file.
